Last port : Funchal, Madeira, Portugal

Wonderful excursion here. This is a stunningly beautiful place, red tiled roofs on pastel houses scattered all over the steep slopes of the volcanic mountains that make up the islands of Madeira, with carefully maintained terraces where they grow bananas and sugar cane and, of course, grapes from which to make Madeira wines. (Looking down one almost vertical set of terraces, our guide shared the local joke about such fields: "You only ever fall once.") The annual flower festival is this weekend, and someone made damned sure the flowers knew about it. Even more variety than in Sicily. Jacaranda trees lining the streets with their elegant blue-violet flowers, and yellow and pink and orange and red and white flowers whose names slipped past too fast for me to catch onto them. Our morning took us up 1000 meters into the Nuns' Valley*, on a twisty little road that had half the bus cowering down in their seats to keep from having to see just how near the edge we were and just how far it was from "up here" to "way down there". (Another local joke: "Our roads may be narrow, but they are elastic -- there's always room." Our driver, Victor, had been driving tour buses along Madeiran mountain roads for 21 years and was nonetheless a calm, elegant, and personable man.)

*The Nuns' Valley got its name when some 15th century nuns hid there from the pirates who raided the island seeking the gold and silver Madeira got from the sale of sugar. The guide told us a story of the aged Mother Superior who accompanied the nuns in their flight. "They say she carried all the monastery's treasure with her. Before she died, she buried it. It has never been found." It is the kind of story where the "They" in "They say" may possibly refer to the current membership of the Union of Licensed Madeiran Tour Guides.

And then we stopped for lunch.

My experience of excursion lunches led me to expect an indifferent buffet including one, count them, one glass of wine OR beer OR soft drink, any additional potable to be paid for by the consumer. Well. We had lunch at Villa Cypriani, a restaurant attached to the Ritz (no, really, the Ritz) Hotel. We ate out on the balcony overlooking Funchal Bay from a height of several hundred feet, allowing us to see other islands of the Madeira Archipelago and to watch a replica of one of Christopher Columbus' ships sail by. The service was impeccable; the food -- a pasta dish, a main course of chicken plus side dishes, a tiramisu dessert plus petit fours and coffee -- was delectable; and both the white wine served with the first course and the red served with the second were excellent. The wait staff seemed to consider it a personal insult if they saw anyone's glass approaching half empty, and they promptly and gracefully corrected the problem as often as it occurred.

I most likely won't be going to dinner tonight. Instead, I think I'll find a place on deck to sit and watch us sail away from Funchal. It is the last land I'll see until we dock in Florida on the 28th, and the last point in the voyage where I can feel this pampered and irresponsible. Tomorrow I will be trying to figure out how to get everything I brought plus everything I bought into luggage that bulged when I arrived -- was it less than four months ago?

Drunk

I am currently more drunk than I have been in living memory, which, given the unreliable state of my memory these days , may not be as long as you think. I went to the murder mystery dinner, which was five courses*, each accompanied by its own wine, which is more wine than I have drunk in living memory, which, given the unreliable -- but we've been down that path already. The murder mystery plot was very silly, which is fine, since the murderer was whoever got the most votes. The food was superb, even by the standards of the Amsterdam, which are quite high: beautifully presented, exquisitely prepared, and luscious. Also at my table were a couple from Michigan and a couple from Alabama, both of whom voted against me as to who killed the victim , but my candidate won out overall, so I feel vindicated. Also very well fed. Also more drunk than I have been in living memory.

We are on our way through the Straits of Gibraltar. I will not see the Rock thereof because we will pass it around 2 am, and even if I were awake, I would not be able to see it. Plus which the idea of going to sleep is sounding better and better.

*Anti pasto platter with Australian Turkey Flat Rosé

Potato and leek soup scented with truffle with California Pine Ridge Chenin Blanc Viognier

Shrimp and lobster salad on a bed of greens with tarragon dressing with Washington Columbia Crest Grand Estate Chardonnay

Petite filet mignon with asparagus, balsamic drizzled cherry tomatoes, and slow fried new potatoes with Washington Columbia Crest Grand Estate Merlot

Chocolate, hazelnut, and coffee cakes with raspberry sauce with Chilean Errazuriz Sauvignon Blanc late harvest

A chivalrous gesture

I really like sitting on deck watching the ocean go by. Sometimes I apparently take this pastime farther than anyone else on board, sitting outside when it's windier or colder than other people find reasonable. Like today, for instance, when it was bright sunny out, but with a chilly wind. Sea and air temperatures were in the low 60s, which would be T-shirt weather at home, but left me shivering as I lay on the deck chair being hypnotized by the sparkles of the sunshine on the waves.

Two men, clad in jackets and windbreakers, strode by, their pace showing they were exercising, not just strolling.

"Would you like us to get you some blankets?" one asked. There are wool blankets available to guests on the outside deck, lovely warm blankets in blue and black plaid.

"No thanks," I replied because I always say "No thanks" when someone offers to help me. It's a character flaw due, I'm sure, to an early trauma or basic lack of courtesy or cerebral short-circuits of some kind. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them because I was cold, and those blankets are snuggly-warm, But the two gentlemen were past me, and I had made my statement, and I couldn't think of a face-saving way to change my mind. If I wanted a blanket, I could stand up and get one for myself, grumble, mumble, scrunch down into the deck chair, shiver.

A few minutes later, they came by again. This time, they didn't even ask. They just grabbed two blankets, covered me to the chin with one, wrapped up my feet (I was wearing sandals!) with the other, said, "You know, you're the only person sitting out on deck", smiled, and strode off.

Viewed from the perspective of feminist empowerment, I should resent their presumption. I say phooey on feminist empowerment. Their kindness warmed me, body and soul, and I continue to smile whenever I think about it. Like now.

Ajaccio

Have you ever heard of Ajaccio? Neither had I until I saw it on the itinerary, and even then I had to keep checking back because the name would not stay in my head. It's a resort town on the island of Corsica, where Napoleon Bonaparte was born. It's part of France, our only French port of call. For some reason I associate Corsica with pirates, and I suspected that the Corsicans think about France the same way that the Sicilians think about Italy. I also expected to encounter the famed French arrogance.

Well, not so much. I didn't have an excursion, I just walked off the ship for a few blocks (my arthritic knees refused to allow much more) and was charmed. The town looked charming. The vendors in the little crafts market were charming, and that's not just because they wanted to sell me something. OK, it was maybe partly because they wanted to sell me something, but I have been in a lot of situations where people were trying to sell me something over the past few months, and none of them charmed me like the Corsicans. I found a ring I wanted to buy -- little bits of amber set in silver like four-petaled flowers -- but the merchant only took Euros in cash, a limitation which he communicated with diplomacy and, yes, charm. He gave me directions to an ATM, agreeing to hold the ring for me until I got back, and as I walked there, I watched the people around me being charmingly Gallic and no one ever was snooty or unpleasant in any way. It seemed like a place I wished I had more time in.

And now the idea of spending time in France is beginning to appeal to me. How weird! I have nothing in common with France. I can't tell one wine from another once it's in my mouth, I prefer Rachmaninoff and Shostakovitch to Debussy and Ravel, and Corsica isn't even mainland France!

Oh well, we'll see how the rosy glow weathers. But I had a lovely hour in Ajaccio.

End in sight

It's Day 100 of 112. I have a spiffy copper medal honoring my 100 days aboard a Holland America cruise ship. One more day in Barcelona, a sea day, a day in Cadiz, after passing through the Straits of Gibraltar, another sea day, Madeira, then a week at sea to pack up and cross the Atlantic. Actually, a lot of cruises last only a week or two, on one of them, we'd just be starting. I don't think I can actually psych myself out to that extent, but I guess it's worth a shot. Or maybe watching the end approaching is part of the experience. Yeah, I think I'll go with that instead.

A steel magnolia

Got into conversation at breakfast this morning with Vera, a soft-spoken widow from Georgia who told me a story that makes her my hero and role-model.

It happened in Sharm-el-Sheikh. She wanted to get a quick tour of the town and agreed with one of the many taxi drivers on the pier that he would drive her around the town for an hour for $5. She got into the taxi, and he drove for several minutes before stopping at the town's dump and demanding $80 to take her back to the docks.

Tourist nightmare. The ship was due to leave long before she could find her way back on foot. But did she falter? She did not. "I don't carry that much money with me, " she told him. He would take a credit card. "I never carry my cards off the ship," she replied. Maybe she would let him give her a massage.

At this point, she got really mad. "We agreed to $5 for an hour. Now you take me back to the ship right now!" He pretended to be outraged, saying he would take her to the police station. "Fine. That's perfect. Take me to the police station, I want to tell the police about this criminal behavior."

He took her back to the ship. She got out of the taxi before paying him his $5.

When I grow up, I want to be just like Vera.

Insomnia cure: rough seas

Turns out being rocked back and forth in bed by 6-8 foot swells is very calming. I even dreamed I got sent to a newly created world in the second crew because of my debugging skills. Apparently my subconscious considers this world BTDT*.

So, Sicily. We were there at the perfect time, before the summer drought turns everything brown and sere and when Etna was conversational. In the volcanic-ash-enriched soil on Etna's slopes, anything that can grow will grow. We saw lemons and oranges ready to pick, lots of vegetables, lots of prickly pear, pruned back grapevines, flowers, all in carefully maintained terraces -- we're on slopes, remember. Our first stop at the end of the most recent major lava flow took us through villages on streets whose curves were clearly designed with donkey carts rather than 40-passenger tour buses in mind. Our driver deserved an award for not knocking any corners off the beautiful two-story stucco houses we passed within inches of.

And here we are at the end of a lava flow from the mid 90s, hearing how the Sicilians have learned to control the flows to minimize damage, when, out of a clear sky, a growl of thunder. Then a couple more. "Oh, that's just the volcano," the guide says, not visibly running in terror. Turns out Etna, unlike St. Helena, has little mini-eruptions all the time, tossing a few boulders into the air, emitting clouds of smoke, ash, and gas, and spooking the tourists. "If you are here at night, you can see the glow of the lava in the crater," the guide said. One spooked tourist asked, "But we won't be here at night, will we?"

The thunderous basso continuo accompanied us all afternoon. A few of us were spooked, but most of us were delighted. We were delighted to have the volcano commenting as we sampled flavored honey at the little stand by the lava. We were delighted as we walked up from the bus to the winery where we tasted five wines, two reds, two whites, and a sparkling. (The connoisseurs were unimpressed. I liked all five, but especially the red that was presented as "subtle and complex".) We were disappointed to learn that we would not be able to hear Etna back on the ship in Messina, and our guide, Maurizio, a charming man, tried to console us with a passable amateur rendition of "O Sole Mio" and the Sicilian version of the origins of the Mafia.

According to Maurizio, while Sicily was under the thumb of Spain several centuries back, the Spanish were big on extracting the island's wealth, but not so keen on keeping order and providing justice. So the Sicilians set up their own shadow government. Kind of like what Don Corleone provided to the Sicilian immigrants in New York in "Godfather 1". Once Italy took over in the 19th century, people were used to trusting the local guys and the system continued, in spite of the Italians. Maurizio said he considers himself Sicilian first, Italian second, but he thinks the Mafia is in decline because the younger generation, including himself, is no longer intimidated by them. I was surprised to hear him talk like that. Is omerta passé?

*Been There, Done That.